


Caesura

by UncrownedKing



Series: chivalry [6]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: At this point, Blood, Burning, Burns, Caning, Choking, Chunks of Flesh, Delirium, Disassociation, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Wounds, Hair Pulling, Insults, Passing Out, Public Humiliation, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Sun Burns, Swearing, THIS IS A TORTURE FIC, Temporary/Pain-induced Memory Loss, Torture, Verbal Abuse, Whipping, a concern?, a lot of blood, can we get an F in the chat for roman, cursing, drug mention, from pain, heat - Freeform, his name is dropped once lmao, if you're torturing yourself does that constitute as self-harm, in particular, is remus mention even like, is there a difference when the whip turns into a cane halfway through?, remus is the least of ur concerns in this fic i promise you, remus just gets mentioned tbh, self-deprecation, self-torture, this fic really isn't for the faint of heart wow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 11:56:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20173864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UncrownedKing/pseuds/UncrownedKing
Summary: this is heavily a part of chivalry is dead (the series this is a part of) and i recommend reading that first!There's a demonstration that's been alluded to in multiple chapters, multiple stories, by multiple people. How did the Dragon gain his infamous villainy, and how did the Damsel gain alllllll those new scars?(I ALSO RECOMMEND HEEDING THE WARNINGS. THIS IS JUST A TORTURE FIC. LIKE THERES PLOT AND BACKSTORY BUT THATS ALL BACKDROPPED BY, YOU KNOW, PUBLIC TORTURE.)





	Caesura

The Thief hopped onto the roof, then bent down as he slid down slow against the tiling. He stopped himself at the edge, resting a hand against the building’s spire. He was standing atop the church, the one in the town’s square. Four blocks away from the castle in the innermost walls. This was the closest he’d gotten to the castle so far; until now, he’d been opting to just hide in the tree until this whole tournament of champions passed. But the invitation to witness….

It couldn’t be real. 

There was already a gathering in the square. He didn’t know where the Dragon planned to come from, where they had that other Roman — the Damsel, the Damsel in Distress? He couldn’t remember a Damsel but it wasn’t like he’d stayed to hear all their names — nor what the Dragon had in store. It was a vague invitation and he didn’t plan on staying long. 

The crowd didn’t have defined faces. Some were very recognizable, though. The Thief could pick Sleep out in the crowd, near the back and leant against a wall, Starbucks in his hand. He’d probably report back to the other Shorts characters. They’d all developed a coallesed group over the years and while they weren’t always friendly to one another, they all understood that they had equal importance in the Imagination. Sleep was the most neutral of them, with a fan following that ensured he’d never die. 

The Thief winced. He hoped that Prince Dude was doing alright, hopefully hidden somewhere in the town. He used to flit around the castle, no actual power but a charisma over the unnamed townspeople that ensured he was respected like royalty. It would be a little weird if he ran into Prince Dude out here during this, but like with most things, the Thief would probably just fade back into the shadows and go home. Considering the little time he spent outside either the castle or the tree, it was improbable that he’d ever run into him.

On another rooftop, lower and closer to the town hall, atop the library actually, was the Bard. The Thief had seen him a few times over the past two days, so much so that he might consider him a friend. Gosh, it’d already been two days? He wondered briefly how long it’d been in the real world. Would any of the other Sides notice?

Had it been long enough? Would they ever notice?

Wasn’t like they regarded Roman as more than a pawn for their own gains, despite how Roman loved them. The Thief wouldn’t fault them for that, though. And he’d never told. 

He longed for any of them to just….touch him. Not even in any sexual way. He’d been having dreams of how Virgil would lean his head against his shoulder during movie nights, how soft Patton’s hands were when he ran them through Roman’s hair. Even Logan’s firm grip on his wrist as he led him around the Mind Palace, to the library, then to Logan’s room, then to the kitchen, bathroom for first aid, Roman’s room, anywhere. 

Now, don’t be getting tender. This was a piss poor time for those idyllic dreams. 

The Bard was sitting cross legged on the roof (he wouldn’t be able to escape as fast) and was holding a ukulele in his lap (could it serve as a weapon?) while his mouth was open. He must have been singing a song. There was a blanket or something in his lap, an amorphous black blob. How long did he think they’d be out here for?

Of all the counterparts, the Thief found the Bard most agreeable. His non-hostile characterization made it easier for him to hold conversation, because he didn’t ask too many questions and wouldn’t murder him. Or maybe it was less that he was quiet and more that the Bard just didn’t shut up about himself.

He chuckled. 

The black lump moved in the Bard’s lap, and the Thief frowned. 

Oh, no, no fucking way. He did not. 

The Thief squinted across the square, then clicked his tongue. 

Oh, god damn it, he did. The Child was sitting in the Bard’s lap, plucking at random ukulele strings. 

He’d brought the Child? They didn’t know what the Dragon was going to do, but it didn’t seem like something that the Child should witness. 

Though, the Thief thought while bobbing his head, it was probably safer to keep the Child at his side instead of leaving him at home. Who knows if the guards would break in. He wouldn’t it past the Dragon to send that kind of strike while at an event like this. He wasn’t sure if the Dragon was thoughtful enough to consider that sort of tactic, but, well….

“WHO WANTS TO GET THIS PARTY STARTED!” a shout from below. 

The doors to the town hall opened with a bang, and the Bard immediately clamped his hands over the Child’s ears. The Thief rolled his eyes, figuring he’d have to talk about how to be an actually good parent, maybe he could get Dad Guy’s help in that, wait, wasn’t his whole character about how he was kinda an irresponsible parent? Maybe Teacher Dude?

Something was being rolled out of the town hall. A platform, with a peg in the middle and raised on some wheels, was being rolled out. 

A stage. This bastard wanted a stage. The Thief hissed, running his hands through his hair and shoving them harshly into a crossed motion on his chest. Hold it together. You had to watch. Bear witness or something like that. 

The guards pushing the stage stationed it out in the middle of the crowd, locking its wheels with blocks and surrounding it themselves. Did they think any of them would try and save the poor sap? The Thief knew he wasn’t, and he had a suspicion no one else would, either. 

The town hall’s doors opened again, and the Thief craned to see. 

Out walked who the Thief can only assume is the Dragon. He didn’t know what he expected, but whatever those expectations were are being vastly overlooked in lieu of the Dragon’s tackiness. I mean, really, a whole cape? It was floor length, billowing after him, and then there were actual literal horns coming from his head? Hang on, he just took a breath — it’s not cold enough for there to be condensation, was that smoke?

The Dragon was really taking this villainy thing to the next level. The Thief’s peasantry clothing beneath his cloak was at least white, if a little grey and dirtier than usual. The Dragon didn’t have a single spot of white on him. 

Beside him, being pulled along on chains around his neck and wrists, was the Damsel in Distress. An apt shortening would probably be the Damsel, since the Thief would be damned before he spoke more than two syllables to identify a Side. 

A pair of guards followed them out, making that six guards in total around the podium. As they approached, the Dragon shoved the Damsel’s head down and handed his chains off to one of the guards. He motioned toward the post, giving quiet instructions, while the Damsel starred numbly at the crowd. 

Maybe he hadn’t known what would be happening. That’s what it seemed like. 

The Dragon climbed onto the stage first, then the guards led the Damsel up, tugging him along like a dog on a leash. 

“AS SOME OF YOU KNOW!” the Dragon stepped in a circle, around the stage’s perimeter. “THE PRINCE IS DEAD!”

As he spoke, the Damsel stood on the platform, swaying slightly. The Thief watched him, curious of his movements. He was wearing white pants and a black tank top. No shoes, though they’d probably been removed for this performance. 

This was probably a performance. Nothing more. Roman wouldn’t intentionally do something this self-torturous, no part of him. The Thief squatted, then rested his head on his knuckle. He couldn’t place where he’d seen this Roman, the Damsel. He wasn’t paying attention during that initial meeting, none of them really were, what with them getting into arguments and threatening to kill each other and what have you. And if the Prince was really….dead. Then it stood to reason that the Dragon would continue killing them off. One by one. 

Of course, this was a threat. Who else would be on the Dragon’s hit list?

Instinctively, the Thief’s eyes floated to the Bard and the Child. 

Pacifists, he was sure. One was ten years old, and the other, well….

The Child tried to lean out of the Bard’s lap, neck craning to see what was below, and the Bard pulled him closer to his chest. Blocking his view, just as the guards kicked in the Damsel’s knees and grabbed his chains. They threw them around a peg in the post, and the Damsel was knelt on the ground, chest facing outward with his arms just barely held above his head. He didn’t make any move against the bindings, too.

“You shouldn’t have brought him,” the Thief mumbled to himself, unable to stop the judgement from flowing out. Really, though. A whole ass child. 

He wasn’t sure what kept the Bard there, either; he knew him to be more of a lover than any sort of fighter, much to the Thief’s chagrin.

On top of that, he wasn’t sure where the other two were. Perhaps the Playwright was watching from a distance. He’d insinuated that he could do that. Where the Artist was, though, he didn’t know. There was no way he wasn’t present, though. How could any of them have turned this opportunity down.

“AND WITH THE PRINCE DEAD,” the Dragon was walking in circles now, slow with his cape trailing after, as though circling his prey, “WE NEED TO THIN OUT THE CROWD. DECIDE WHICH VERSION OF ROMAN IS WORTH KEEPING.”

Murmuring in the crowd. The Thief even saw Sleep shift upright, looking intrigued. They’d all known that the split happened, everyone knew about the two Creativities, but none of them had been around for it. Or, well, none of the ones who were there at the time remembered it. Everyone had undergone changes through creative development, so much so that their memories beyond backstories and plot-relevancy were muddled.

No one knew how Creativity settled unto the Prince and the Duke. The Thief guessed they were about to find out. 

The Dragon must have seen everyone’s focus turned to him, because he grinned even wider, barring sharp fangs at the world. His eyes gazed across the crowd in reverence. A real drama queen.

Meanwhile, with one hand, he grabbed the Damsel’s arm and spun him around. He gave a shout, but spun nonetheless, hugging the post. He seemed disoriented, to the Thief. Had he been drugged beforehand?

Had he fought back? 

The Thief slid down the building more more, resting his feet against the chimney as he watched. He wasn’t sure what kind of public humiliation the Dragon was going for, but having invited all of the others, he knew it wouldn’t be good. What did ‘Worth Keeping’ mean?

“HOW DOES ONE DECIDE?” the Dragon raised his hand. 

There was a black whip glittering in his hand. 

The Thief saw the Bard cover the Child’s eyes with one hand, and his mouth with the other. Even the Thief’s mouth hung open slightly. 

What he was insinuating was torture.

No part of Roman was that cruel, right?

“YOU KILL IT!” 

The Damsel lurched when the whip cracked against his back, but made no sound himself. The whip made a snaping sound, loud like the thunder of last night’s storm. 

The Thief didn’t know what the Bard did after that. He assumed they’d stayed, because he assumed that the Bard had just as much morbid curiosity as he did. His eyes were glued to the scene but he didn’t process a single strike after the first. It all merged together into lines of blood, drops of red flicking off of the glittering whip. 

The Dragon was laughing. 

He heard that. He heard the laughter. 

None of the other characters moved, either. Everyone stood, or looked away. 

After the first few strikes, the Thief shook his head, trying to physically clear it, and averted his gaze to the crowd. Sleep had disappeared. Some of the less processed characters were still watching, but everyone who had ever interacted with Roman at all seemed to be averting their eyelines. 

No one wanted to watch. This was gruesome. 

A loud scream rang out, and the Thief’s attention snapped back. The Damsel finally gave in, screaming, crying out in pain as — it wasn’t a whip any longer. No, it was an obsidian cane, glittering and black but sharp as a knife. Had it changed into a cane? When? Could the Dragon do that?

The Dragon paused, stepping forward and yanking the Damsel upright by the hair. Even from this distance, he could see the Damsel trembling like a leaf. Blood was oozing from his back, coating his legs, even his face had spots of it. 

He looked like he was saying something. Perhaps the Thief should get closer. If there were words being exchanged, sentiments and the like being discussed, he would want to hear. It might help him get the edge on whatever quagmire the Dragon would create after this….what would he call it? A demonstration of power, maybe? Of prowess? Of Roman’s weakness, most likely. 

Jesus, this was already so tiring. The Thief couldn’t wait to go home, back to the tree. Brew some hot chocolate, curl up in his bedroom, amidst all his blankets and pillows and the soft matress. Watch the sun set. 

Another shout drew the Thief’s attention once more. The Dragon had the Damsel pressed to the post, holding him up by the neck while his back bled out against the wooden pole. More words were exchanged, and the Thief looked around the rooftops. He could try and sneak into the crowd, but he looked way too identifiably Roman. 

Speaking of. He looked up at the other rooftop. 

Oh, dear. The Bard was crying. He seemed to have a firm grip on the Child’s head, was pressing him against his own chest in an effort to make sure the Child didn’t look. And it wasn’t like the Child was trying to look, either, as he curled into the Bard’s chest.

The Thief grunted, squatting down. He wanted to get closer. He tied his waistbelt around his cloak, so it wouldn’t flap as much, and shimmied on his feet further out one of the stone gutters. The Dragon was still looking down at the Damsel, talking about something or another. 

He didn’t look up or indicate that he saw the Thief hop between one gutter to the next. The Thief grasped onto the roof, sliding himself down by holding onto the metal window bars of the building he was on and landing, as soft as he could, on the balcony below. He climbed off of the confined area and walked out closer to the edge. Then, he broke into a run. 

The best seat in the house was, in fact, the town hall. The Thief jumped across the gap between the two buildings, rolling upon landing as—

“I WILL LIGHT YOU ON FIRE, YOU KNIGHT IN FOOLS’ GOLD ARMOR,” the Thief sank into a criss-cross at the roof’s edge as the Dragon shouted threats again at the trembling Damsel.

He didn’t scream when the cane whipped against his back, squelching much more than it snapped. His back was gridded with lines, unidentifiable now because of, you know, the copious amounts of blood that he imagined he was covered in. Was there even a layer of skin to be shearing?

He deserved this. Yes, he did. He was a horrible purveyor of dreams, defender of hopes. Hopes? When was the last time he’d felt those? Was it a year ago? Two? 

He couldn’t remember. 

His body arched without his command, away from the clip of the cane, but Roman could barely feel it anymore.

He couldn’t feel anything anymore, not really. Not the tips of his fingers, barely the whip against his back. Soon, hopefully soon, he wouldn’t even feel the cold grip of life. 

Someone’s hand brushed through his hair, the tips of their fingers grazing incredibly soft against his scalp, and he whined. Please? Please, his body leaned into the touch, tugging at whatever was holding him by the wrist, by the neck, please, he wanted this so badly, he wanted to be held, he WANTED!

“You’re pathetic,” his own voice spat back at him, and a swift kick landed in his stomach. 

Roman coughed, or cried out, but whatever sound was there died in his mouth. He curled around the leg, body tugging lamely against the chains. Why was he doing this?

A better question, whispered into his mind, was why hadn’t he done this before? Why was he parading around like he was some king, deserving of praise and reward? 

He didn’t deserve it. 

“So gullible, so weak,” he was yanked up again by the hair, tugging at his scalp in a semi-comforting way.

He could feel slips of his skin tugging off. They must be curling, like pencil shavings or a banana’s peel, curling down and springing back with every time his adversary pulled him upright. 

“I hope you’ll die soon,” he clicked his tongue, disgusted by the sight that Roman had become, “You’re getting blood all over my suit.”

Roman laughed, coughing up blood. It trickled down the side of his mouth, down his jaw. He’d screamed that hard, huh? 

The arrogance that he used to be filled with was coating the back of his mind, and he knew he had to snark, return the banter. Was it even banter? It had to be. 

His voice was nothing but air, and it hurt. It stung so much to speak. 

“It’s a red suit.”

He drew in a breath and whined, closing his eye. It hurt. 

He didn’t want it to hurt anymore. 

Roman had wanted this earlier, before he knew what it’d feel like, how warm a day it would be. The sun boilt down on him, sizzling his blood into permanent stains across his body, more permanent than anything Imagined should be. But he didn’t want to boil, and he didn’t want it to hurt anymore. 

It hurt.

Someone would come. Someone would save him, yes. 

But did he deserve that? No, god, no, of course not.

“But it’s not blood red. You’re discoloring it,” the person dropped him again, tossing his head aside and letting it snap against the metal leash, “You’re so stupid. Useless. You can’t even die in a good way.”

Roman didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t want to die. 

He wanted to die, he did, but he didn’t want to hurt.

“V’h,” he choked on his own saliva and tears, whimpering again and hiding his face into the crook of his elbow. 

Who would save him?

“No, no,” the person grabbed his neck, lifting him up against the pole and it stung. 

His back lurched, twitching violently as the pole itself rubbed against his muscles, exposed from the lack of skin and fat covering them. Roman felt the twitching in his shoulders and hip, a pained wail turning to only a hoarse yell as his vocal chords gave out once more. 

“You were saying something,” the person’s breath was hot, too hot, like the sun, scorching him, “Finish your sentences, your Majesty, its rude to not.”

No. No, no, it was foolish of him. 

“You want Virgil, don’t you?” 

Roman shook his head, hair thick with sweat as it bounced back and forth with him. The display certainly wasn’t convincing, though, even he knew that. He wanted to be comforted. Virgil was always there….always there to protect him, and the others. Of course he wouldn’t be here now. It was foolish to want him.

It was foolish to wish for love from any of them, at any point in time. Love. What a delusory dream.

The person laughed, and slammed his neck against the pole again. It pressed so far, grazing one of his vertebrae.

His voice was echoing around Roman, a chamber of mock pity. 

It hurt, but the lashings themselves didn’t hurt. Roman’s entire spine tingled once the pole touched it. This far down, his insides weren’t supposed to see the light of day. 

He could barely imagine what it would really feel like, for a person, not just an imagined feeling for an imagined being. He wasn’t real. 

The reveal of his entrails was, as everything his useless mind could conjure, dramatic as all get out. 

“Do you want Virgil to see this? Imagine what he’d say.”

He’d be so angry. 

He wasn’t real. He wasn’t Roman. 

“And what about Patton? Can you imagine how much he’d cry.”

The person dropped Roman again, then kicked him in the back.

It burned. Roman felt like he would have a foot-shaped brand, the person’s boot slammed against his back, between his spine and his shoulder blade. It slipped up in the bloody mush of his back like one would slip on mud, difficult to walk in terrain immediately after a downpour of cataclysmic condensation. 

His boot was so, so firm against Roman’s back. The heel dug into his flesh very briefly, but it felt as though it would drill a hole through his person. Through his very being. 

“Logan wouldn’t care, would he? Would Deceit?” the boot left his back. 

Before Roman could recollect himself, though, the cane struck the back of his neck. It didn’t hurt, once again, he barely felt it. 

He wasn’t Roman. His mind was murky in the thick blood, boiling.

He could only feel the sun’s heat. He should have designed the Imagination without a sun. Who needed it, anyway? What was it good for? 

“Pathetic,” the shadow whispered, then shouted again, “PATHETIC!”

Perhaps it wasn’t the sun. His head was warm, hair warm, ears tingling and burning and so so warm. His back was warm, too, for a similar reason. 

Roman didn’t have his eye opened, but he knew he was on fire when he felt it. He trembled, arms jerking to instinctively slap the flames off of his person, but he couldn’t move very far beyond the chains. 

Laughing. 

Roman deserved this. 

“Burn at your pyre, your Majesty,” he spat the words. “That’s all you have left,” the Dragon laughed, a hearty chuckle, and then struck Roman once more. 

Then once more.

Then once again. 

And again, and again, and again, and Roman could only feel the dripping of his own blood down his back. It pooled around his knees, a thick pool that was going to dye his tanned skin with red spots. Like a strawberry nevus.

Someone told him that name once, it was a type of birthmark. He couldn’t remember who. He could barely remember anything. 

Roman was lost in the pain so much as one could be lost in bliss. His body stopped responding to the lashings, no longer curving inward. He wasn’t moving. It was all moving around him.

In fact, it actually was moving. It felt as though the platform were spinning. Up was down, and down was up again, and up down down up and into the darkness. Who knew death would be so welcoming. Like a cloud. Like a soft, comforting….

Roman’s eye rolled back, and he slumped against the bindings, unable to collapse onto the ground. The chains held his defeated body up for the world to see.

The Dragon stood up straighter, then scooted forward. Had he….?

He lifted the Damsel’s face with the cane and examined his expression, so soft and placid in comparison to the drywall paint peeling that his back and arms appeared like. 

“Is….WHAT?!” The Dragon roared. How dare he. How DARE he pass out, the pathetic whelp! He had the nerve! 

The Dragon wanted to keep going! He was just getting warmed up! This was so much fun, so alluring! He’d never known blood splatters could be so beautiful. 

Though, this was their cue to be done. Hopefully the Damsel wouldn’t wake up again, if his theory had been correct. The Dragon looked out at the crowd, curling up the whip in his hand and fastening it to the latch on his belt. 

Most of the crowd — the ones with less of a conscious, the ones who were simply faces who’d been committed to memory, hadn’t been given stories yet but nonetheless existed — were still watching. He did love an audience.

Some of the true characters had stayed, but hadn’t fully watched. He could see someone in the back, turned away in a black cloak. 

No patches. Not one of them. Though they’d stayed and had the gall to be disguised. 

The Dragon didn’t CARE about any of the others, though. He grunted, smoke escaping from his lips as he motioned for the guards stationed around the platform to grab the Damsel. “Our pathetic excuse for a Creativity seems to have drawn his last breath,” he coo’ed, just loud enough for the sound to echo across the Imagination, “I guess this concludes today’s presentation!”

Two of them climbed onto the platform, unhooking the Damsel from the post and throwing him over their shoulder. Chunks of his flesh, or thick globs of blood (really, they were indistinguishable) fell off as he was moved. 

Revolting. Hopefully he was dead, so the Dragon could just throw his body into the lake and be done with it. He’d have to have Remus check for a pulse, though. Lord knew Dragon didn’t know how to do that sorta shit. 

He scanned the crowd once more. No sign of any other Roman figment. No murmur, even. Everyone just watched in horrified silence. 

No matter. The Dragon knew the others had come, they’d seen. That was all that needed to be done. This was just a message, nothing more. 

The Damsel was his little test run, his beautifully caged canary, on death row. And hopefully he’d died. 

Even unconscious, his lip twitched, into the barest of smiles. 

Yes, hopefully he’d died. 

**Author's Note:**

> it has been a WHILE since I wrote a torture fic!! pls lmk how it went lmao 
> 
> also, if i missed any warnings, please let me know ; 7 ; i tried to be pretty liberal with my tagging on this one, since, ya know. its Fuckin Torture™
> 
> also, for those who might be interested — enjambment is a poetic device, of when a line break occurs in the middle of a sentence. caesura is when there is a grammatical pause in the middle of a line. :)


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